


To the East

by kestrelsan



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-03
Updated: 2005-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:28:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kestrelsan/pseuds/kestrelsan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir and Boromir, growing up in Minas Tirith and encountering the world around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the East

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to prillalar and hesychasm for their suggestions and beta help on this.

When Boromir turned sixteen, he was deemed a man and allowed to join a company. Faramir watched him ride out one dawn from the west tower, the men and horses very small as they left the gate and crossed the fields of Pelennor. He wished he was riding with them, to escape the walls of Minas Tirith for a while.

His father was in a stern mood. The wizard Mithrandir had arrived one night to take counsel, and they were closeted together much of the past few days. When Faramir did see his father, his mouth was grim and his anger quick. Faramir had not seen the wizard at all. He wondered how he would look, if he would be fierce as the stories said, or old and gnarled, as his father's remarks often implied.

"Bad news, wizards are," his father's guard told him, when Faramir sat with him one cold and star-filled night. Valan spat to the side. "Nothing good comes of a wizard's counsel, you'll see."

In Boromir's absence, Faramir spent most of his time with the other boys in the city. Evenings he stole into the archives to read the histories there. The archivist knew him and gave him the freedom of most of the books and scrolls, though some were stored too high for him to reach, and he didn't quite dare ask for them to be taken down for him.

He went down one evening, and there was an old man he didn't recognize sitting at one of the tables. Faramir stopped short. "Good evening," he said politely.

The man fixed him with a scrutinous stare. "Good evening," he said. His voice was low and rumbling. He did not seem the least uncomfortable in someone else's archives.

Faramir glanced curiously at the sheaf of parchment in front of the man. "Is that the Song of Maedhros?"

"Hmm," said the man. He sounded surprised, but also pleased. "I did not think Denethor was teaching his sons to read elvish."

Faramir ducked his head. It was not his father but his tutor whom he'd finally convinced to teach him the language so he could read the scrolls. He did not think his father would be pleased. "It was difficult to read," he said instead.

The old man did not seem fooled. His eyes weren't stern--in fact, they appeared almost kind--but they held Faramir's until Faramir shifted uncomfortably and dropped his gaze. Unexpectedly, the man laughed.

"No matter," he said. "It is no bad thing for the sons of Gondor to learn languages other than their own. In fact, I would say it is a very good thing." He leaned forward and pulled out the chair next to him. "Sit down. Tell me about this scroll."

Faramir sat down. He told him what he could remember of the song, which wasn't very much; as he had said, it had been difficult to read and not as interesting as some of the other scrolls in the library. Yet the old man listened intently. When Faramir was finished, the man pulled out a pipe and lit it, and smoke streamed out like evening fog. He looked at Faramir thoughtfully.

"It must be very dull for you here."

Faramir blinked at him, partly in surprise, and partly because the smoke was starting to thicken. "No, not really." The old man raised an eyebrow. "Sometimes," he said more truthfully.

The man smoked slowly, glancing vaguely around the scattered books and scrolls, and several minutes passed in silence. Faramir thought perhaps his mind was wandering a little, as the minds of old men were apt to do. Then the man slapped his thighs as if coming awake, and stood up.

"Well then, young Faramir. If you come down here again tomorrow night, I will have a story for you to repay your kindness." He gave him a shrewd look, as if contemplating something, then took another puff from his pipe. "Hmph," he said, and left.

Faramir thought him extremely odd. He did not say anything about him to the other boys the next day when he joined them in the lower courtyard, nor did he mention the old man to his father when he saw him briefly that evening for supper. But that night he went down to the archive as instructed.

There was no one there. He was surprised by his own disappointment, but he swallowed it down and pulled a large book from a shelf to read. It was a very old book, its pages cracked and crumbling at the edges, but he remembered it had a lot to say on the subject of wizards.

He was intent on his reading when he heard a sound behind him, a whisper of cloth. The old man peered down over his shoulder at the book.

"I see I have been found out."

"Well," Faramir said apologetically, "there really aren't many people in Minas Tirith I don't know."

"Hm," said the wizard. Then he sat down and told Faramir the story of the construction of Minas Ithil and the settlement of Ithilien. The wizard's voice made it seem to come alive, as if the words were a part of some greater spellcasting. They met several times after that, spending evenings in the dust of the archive. The wizard's tales were always much more exciting than the written histories, but sometimes he would ask about a book or scroll Faramir had read, and Faramir would tell him the story of it.

He still missed Boromir, but it eased a little.

One night his father held a banquet, and he was given rare permission to attend. As he slipped quietly into his place near the end of the table, he saw that his father was flanked by his advisors at the table, with Mithrandir to his right. Denethor ate calmly and listened to the talk of those around him, but did not engage in any of it.

"An excellent feast, Lord Denethor," Mithrandir said. Faramir strained to hear him.

"Yes." His father took a sip of wine. "Gondor is quite sufficient in its meats."

The wizard seemed to find this amusing. "Yet there are those who would challenge that self-sufficiency."

"Oh?" Denethor gave him a cool look. "If there are, I have not heard of it. Nor do I think they would dare to do so."

The talk of the others had quieted, but his father and the wizard seemed unaware of the sudden interest. "Yet, Lord Denethor," the wizard said in between bites of meat, "there have been signs of less savory folk within your borders. Surely you are not unaware of it?"

Denethor's face hardened, but he raised his hand to dismiss the wizard's words. "They are few. And easily beaten back, as one would a rabid dog."

"I have always found dogs to be resilient creatures, particularly when they travel in packs."

Denethor smiled thinly. "Is this your counsel? That Gondor should expend itself chasing packs of dogs?"

The wizard made to answer, but before he could do so the doors of the hall were thrown roughly open. A man with the mark of one of his father's companies stood in the doorway.

"My lord," he said. His face was streaked with dirt and blood, and he swayed a little. One of the men at table rose to steady him and tried to lead him to a chair, but he refused it. He looked only at Denethor. "My company was ambushed by a band of orcs three nights ago. We killed most and chased the others off, but my captain ordered me to ride to tell you he has sent the wounded back--" his voice faltered, "--and the dead."

Denethor rose from his seat, his hands white as they clutched the table's edge. "Where is my son?" he said in a deadly voice.

For a strange, wild moment, Faramir thought he was talking about him. Then he recognized the messenger as belonging to the same company as Boromir. He gripped the sides of his chair.

"My lord," the man said quickly, "your son is able to ride of his own accord. He has a gash on his arm from an orc sword, but it is not too serious, and he is riding back with the other wounded. He fought bravely, my lord," he added.

Denethor sagged forward. Faramir looked at him wonderingly; he had never seen his father display strong emotion of any kind before.

"My lord," the wizard Mithrandir said to Denethor. "The dogs grow bold."

Denethor threw him a vicious look, and Faramir wondered that the wizard did not recoil from it. But Mithrandir sat calmly and met Denethor's eyes, and there was a look on his face almost of pity.

His father pushed back from the table. "By your leave," he said sarcastically to the wizard, "I will await the return of my son. And let us have no more talk of dogs."

The hall was silent as he left. A few other men rose to leave as well, but some stayed; eating and talking in hushed tones. Faramir sat quietly at the table, unsure of what to do.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned his head to see the wizard. "Your brother will be fine," the wizard said gently. Mithrandir's eyes followed the path Denethor had just taken. "He is from a strong line."

It was several days before Boromir returned, his arm in a sling. There were five other wounded with him, and two dead. Faramir had not known the dead men. Denethor had kept to his rooms in the interim, unseen by anyone, but he went out to meet his son at the inner gates.

Faramir watched their greeting from one of the towers. Denethor embraced his son, and Faramir thought he could almost sense his brother's surprise and pleasure at the gesture, though he could not see their faces.

He waited a few hours before visiting Boromir at the Houses of Healing, until the others had left.

Boromir showed him his bandaged arm. "Just a scratch," he said, making light of it, though Faramir could see he was proud.

"What was it like?" Faramir asked him, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Boromir lowered his voice. "Awful," he admitted. "I did not think I would ever see such creatures as that. Like men but not." His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "I think they have forgotten what it was like to be men."

Faramir had read about orcs from the archive's histories. He'd half believed they were only a myth to frighten children.

"They ambushed us at night," Boromir told him. "Truthfully, I couldn't see much of anything. I killed one, I think." He grew silent, and Faramir reached out and grasped his hand. "It wasn't at all like I thought it would be."

Faramir stayed with him until the sleeping draught the healer's had given him took effect, then he left the Houses of Healing and went down to the archives. The wizard was already there at one of the tables, a scroll unfurled before him.

"Your brother is well, I trust."

Faramir nodded. He halted a few feet from the wizard. "What did you mean, that there are those who would challenge Gondor?"

Mithrandir put down the scroll. "There are many things outside this country's borders, Faramir, and many that seek to cause mischief within them." His eyes hardened. "Turning a blind eye to them will not make them disappear, as your father would have it."

Faramir had never heard anyone criticize his father before. The next morning he rose early and climbed to the top of the great tower. From there he could see the city spread beneath him, and the land of Gondor stretched out, miles deep, until it disappeared into a pale blur. He looked eastward, where the rising sun bloomed red like a great kiln of fire. Even as the sunrise faded into a blue sky, it was as if he could still see traces of it clinging to the mountains in swathes of orange and red, lingering in the dawn.

He told Boromir what he had seen, and his brother grew quiet. "It is true," Boromir said. "It is said that the orcs come from the east."

"If that is so," Faramir said, "then why does our father not send great companies of men to the eastern border?"

Boromir smiled at him. "Father will do what is right. Here now," he punched him lightly in the arm, "you're not afraid of a few orcs, are you?"

He would never have admitted it to Boromir, but he found the thought of orcs terrifying. "Of course not," he said, making a face. But as he was lying in bed that night, he could still see the bright red of the eastern mountains like a great presence staring back at him.

The wizard left a few days later. Faramir saw him before he rode out of the city, his face creased, but to Faramir he seemed as strong and aged as an oak tree. He smiled at Faramir. "Take heart," he said. "It is not as dire as that."

To Faramir's surprise, his father was also there to see the wizard off. They did not have much to say to one another, though they were cordial enough in their leavetaking.

When Mithrandir had gone, Denethor turned and gave his son a cool look. "Has he been infecting your thoughts as well? It is good that he has gone."

Faramir forced himself to meet his father's hard gaze. "He seemed very wise to me."

Denethor snorted. "He would certainly have you believe so," he said, and left him at the gate.

Faramir watched the wizard until his horse was only a dark speck in the distance. The evening bell chimed; the gates closed heavily. The walls of the city once again loomed up around him, yet they seemed more fragile now, as if a gust of wind could shake them.


End file.
